Linked
by RealRedGold
Summary: Separated from Lee while he's on assignment in Salzburg, Amanda contemplates an uncertain future. What will his return bring for them both?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon. The story is my own, and I wrote it only for entertainment and for the pleasure of Lee and Amanda's company in fiction.

Notes: "Linked" is a companion story to "Bridged." It does stand alone, but without having read "Bridged," you'll miss some of the meaning. A good recollection of the tag scene of "Utopia Now" will also be helpful. I hope that you enjoy it!

 _The man trudges across the pedestrian bridge, head down, immersed in his own dark thoughts. The cold March wind, careening down the river's length, hits him like a blow, and he tucks his chin, narrows his eyes, and buries his fists in the pockets of his leather jacket. The jacket isn't really warm enough for this kind of weather, but he ignores the discomfort of reddened hands and streaming eyes and keeps walking._

"Lee!" Amanda struggles to call out to him but finds her voice strangely muffled. She tries to hurry after him but discovers that she can't catch up; her limbs feel heavy and painfully slow. Seemingly unaware of her presence, he keeps striding away from her. He has turned to walk between the river and the tossing trees, and he's leaving her behind. Where is he going? Is he choosing ignore her, after all? He needs her, she's sure, yet she can't reach him. Amanda feels a sob rise in her chest, but the wind snatches it away so that even it is silenced. Lee is receding into the grey afternoon, beside the grey river, under the grey sky. She calls his name again, feeling cold tears on her face, knowing that if he doesn't turn now, he'll be gone from her life as if he had never walked by her side, his hand on her arm, bending to search her face, asking if she's all right. She will be left in a life that is bleached of so much color and vibrancy because he is no longer a part of it.

"Lee!" Amanda's heart is hammering and her hands are knotted in the sheet. She lies there terrified, gasping, a sensation of utter desolation seeping through her. Her eyes strain to make out some form in the dark, but all she sees are tingling jots. Drawing a shallow, shuddering breath, she rolls on her side and switches on the bedside lamp. The light spreads over the bed, yet a bone-deep fear still grips her. She can feel perspiration over her chest and down her sides. That dream again. This is the third night in a row that it has invaded her sleep. "Lee…" His name is just a whimper now, and there is no one to hear.

In the thin, oyster-grey light of morning, she stands in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, slipping her earrings in, straightening the collar of her ivory-colored blouse. Her dark eyes in the reflection appear watchful and self-protective even to her. She shivers and finds a cardigan to pull on; its pale pink color and plush texture have always comforted her. She can just make out the voices of the boys arguing good-naturedly as they finish the breakfast she got up early to make for them: scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttermilk waffles. She's been watching them surreptitiously since that day in the gym, alert for anything unusual in their behavior or attitudes, but they seem to have adjusted to that brief flash of danger and gone on, absorbed in their friends and activities, pleased but not ecstatic to have their father back on the same continent that they are. 'Wait a minute, that's my snippy comment, not theirs,' Amanda chides herself soberly.

When Joe took that job in Estoccia, she had promised herself that she would never speak ill of him, never let a shadow of the bewilderment and hurt she felt seep into her voice as she talked about Joe to the boys. He's their father, and they deserved to have their own relationship with him—the best relationship they could. And now he has returned to Arlington, with his tickets to baseball games, his invitations to Dooley's, and his admiring glances. Too little, and far, far too late. The main emotion she feels for Joe these days is pity. Although she defended him during his recent crisis and would do the same again, he has seemed like weak tea to her since his reappearance—a decent person, an honest person, someone she will always care for, but rather colorless and bland. She can't now call back what drew them together as college students, long years ago.

'Stop!' she tells herself again. 'Think about Lee. Think about Lee instead.' Instantly, the memory of his expression in the gym as he looked at her and Joe hugging their sons clicks into place as neatly as a slide on a screen. That expression she has not been able to interpret: concern and relief mixed with something else. Understanding? Regret? Resignation? She believes that she and Lee have been finding their way toward each other for a very long time—since they first met, really—and that they had nearly reached one another's arms when Joe returned. She saw Lee only briefly in the few days between the evening at Dooley's and his departure on a trip for the Agency to who-knows-where, and he had seemed distracted then. Has he decided to step back from her and gallantly leave the way clear for a reconciliation between her and Joe? "How _dare_ he!" she thinks. "If that's what's going through his head, how dare he make that decision without talking to me!" Yet that would be just the kind of scheme he would come up with, believing that he was being noble instead of obtuse. Instead of scared.

The brief spasm of anger collapses into sadness. She has to admit that she isn't confident about a romance with Lee herself. A spy with a playboy past and some dark scars that he rarely lets her see. If she had a friend she could confide in about her situation, that person would probably tell her she's being crazy even to consider it; Lee would almost surely leave her broken-hearted if they were to venture into romance. She firmly presses one chilly, balled-up hand into the other and tells herself that **Lee** is her friend, her best friend; she should be satisfied with that. Maybe even he would say what the female friends she can't confide in would say: he's incapable of offering her abiding romantic love. Yet, she yearns for him with some deep, primary-color part of her soul, and she has never been able to mute her instinct to reach for him, to feel curious about what he is capable of. She recognizes that she has always loved him, without expectations or judgments—just loved him, as he is.

Her musings are interrupted by the sounds of the front door opening followed by her mother speaking to someone. With a quick glance at her watch, Amanda leaves her room and hurries down the top flight of the stairs, adjusting her cuffs, smoothing the front of her slacks, and running her pendant on its chain as she goes. She will be late to work if she doesn't leave soon, and Mr. Melrose left a message asking her particularly to be in by nine o'clock—why, she doesn't know, since she's been doing routine computer work in the Q-Bureau during the days she's been at the Agency this week, nothing that requires a special start time.

Her mother is standing at the bottom of the stairs holding a round cone of white and green patterned florist's paper, looking up at her expectantly. "Darling, for you. From Tadge's. Who could have sent flowers? So thoughtful, especially during this chilly spell." From her vantage point on the stairs, Amanda can see a flash of scarlet at the loosely-taped, upper part of the cone. Roses, red roses. With her mind's eye, she sees Lee handing roses up to her in the Q-Bureau, his face hopeful, unsure if his offering will be accepted, if he is worthy of a kiss on the cheek from her after all he has revealed about himself in the recent, lacerating case. And now he has sent her another bouquet to signal that he has missed her while he is traveling, that he hasn't backed into the shadows after all. She descends the last steps deliberately, forcing herself not to rush. Dotty is still talking as she holds out the bouquet, but Amanda has trouble taking in the meaning of her words, as if she is speaking Italian or Portuguese. The crackly paper cone is lying in Amanda's arms now, and she pulls back the top of the paper with eager fingers to uncover the flowers lying among their cool foliage. Not roses. Tulips. A weight of disappointment descends on her; she feels her throat tighten alarmingly and her head tip forward protectively. The little card that she pulls out of its envelope reads:

Dear Amanda,

Here's to moving forward.

Love, Joe.

She thrusts the flowers back at Dotty, cutting off her delighted exclamations. "Mother, could you please take care of these for me before you leave for your shopping trip? I'm going to be late if I don't head out this very second. Thank you! Give my love to Aunt Edna. See you tonight, " she calls out, trying to sound hearty. She finds herself outside on the driveway, drawing in deep draughts of moist spring air. She is surprised to realize that somehow, she managed to snag her raincoat and an umbrella and say goodbye to the boys as she swept through the house. She slips into the coat and buttons it mechanically. No roses. No message from Lee. No hope, really.

At least, there shouldn't be…

At nine o'clock sharp, Amanda knocks briskly on Mr. Melrose's door, waiting for his familiar, "Come!" He is leaning against the front edge of his desk, wearing his dim gold cardigan, his face dominated by a comforting smile. "Amanda," he says warmly, "Thank you for coming in today. Please have a seat. I haven't seen much of you this week. How are Phillip and Jamie?" He furrows his brow as he waits for her answer, and she realizes that he genuinely wants to know.

"They're fine, sir. At least, they seem to be. Kids that age are resilient, I guess. Nothing seems to faze the boys for long."

"And their mother? How is she doing?"

Amanda hesitates a moment before replying. "Well, okay. Maybe she's a little less resilient than they are." She gazes down at her fingers that are intertwined and twisting nervously in her lap. Talking about herself in the third person makes it easier to allude to her reaction to those terrible minutes in the school gym.

"Yes, of course. I understand." His voice is deep with compassion. The pause that follows is not awkward, and Amanda knows that he's thinking about the dangers of parenthood, just as she is. He rumbles inarticulately, then speaks again. "Well. I have some work for you to do this morning—making sense of Lee's notes from the Octagon case—and then an assignment. A courier assignment of sorts." A smile quirks the corners of his mouth.

"Courier, hunh?" Amanda responds cautiously, vaguely aware that she has picked up Lee's speech pattern and remembering the complications of the courier role she played in Munich last year. "Does this involve travel, Mr. Melrose? Because I'm not sure I'm up to that right now. I really want to keep a sharp eye on the boys, and Mother's thinking about taking night classes. And then Lee… well, Lee's not here, sir." She realizes that she's sounding like a complete beginner at the Agency, but she can't help it and plows on. "And believe me, I'm not asking where he is or when he's coming back! That's 'need to know,' I…know. Realize. And I don't need to know, do I, sir?" Amanda winds down, he voice breaking slightly on the last "sir." She expels a long breath and strives again, vainly, to keep her husky voice perfectly even. "I'm just used to working in the field with Lee. That's all."

She risks a glance at Mr. Melrose and is embarrassed to find that his expression is clearly sympathetic. He has always been kind and understanding with her—much more so than Lee was in the early days—and she has appreciated his support, but today, she finds his careful appraisal of her almost more than she can bear. Is she that transparent in her feelings for Lee? Is he thinking, 'Poor woman—she has no idea what she's gotten herself into, falling for Scarecrow'?

"Don't worry, Amanda. This is a simple assignment, and it involves Lee." She waits silently for what will follow. "I want you to pick him up at Dulles. He flight is scheduled to arrive at noon, and he'll be worn out, traveling abroad on a sensitive case without much rest or chance to adjust to the time difference. When I talked with him yesterday, he sounded tired. I just want to make sure he gets home in one piece. Are you available to do that?"

"Yes, certainly, Mr. Melrose, I can pick him up." She feels gentle waves of delight emanating outward from the center of her chest. Lee is coming home. Pressing her lips together to keep from smiling too broadly, she asks, "Shall I bring him back here to meet with you, sir?"

"No, Monday will be soon enough for me to see him. Unless there's something he wants to talk with me about." Mr. Melrose hesitates, the fingers of one hand drumming lightly on the desktop. "He sounded…unlike himself on the phone. And I've known Scarecrow for a long, long time." He appears lost in thought for a moment, his eyes unfocused. When he returns to the present, the sight of her seems to reassure him. "Thank you, Amanda. Drive carefully. And follow your instincts. You have the best instincts of anyone I know." His voice and mien are serious.

Amanda blinks, surprised. Why is he putting so much weight on this trip to the airport? She answers simply, "Thank you, sir," and slips out of the office.

At a quarter past noon, Amanda is waiting for Lee near a baggage carousel in International Arrivals. She has always been interested in watching people, and her Agency training has developed this inclination, but today, she initially scans the figures emerging from Customs only to mentally check each one off: "Not Lee, not Lee, not Lee." Despite the heaviness of spirit, the doubts, and the nightmares that she has experienced lately, she feels buoyant in this moment, and gradually, her engagement in the current of people passing by settles into place, more acute even than usual. She sees two parents joyfully hug their college-aged son, a businessman in a black coat greet his European colleague with a firm handshake and clap on the back, and a young wife fling herself with a shriek at her uniformed husband. 'How long has he been stationed abroad?' Amanda wonders. For the young woman, clearly it has been an age. How long has it been since she's seen Lee? Seven days. Hardly an age, yet it feels like…

Suddenly, Lee is here. He is dressed in a rumpled dark-grey suit and carries a leather satchel that she has never seen before. His face is taut with fatigue and loneliness. She knows this as surely as if he had told her so, just from that one look at him.

The sounds of people's voices, wheeled suitcases grinding over the floors, and loud-speaker announcements mysteriously fade. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can call his name, his gaze sweeps the tide of people and locks on her. She sees his tense shoulders relax and his face suddenly become open, then vulnerable, then delighted, the emotions flickering over his handsome features in quick succession. He strides toward her, and maybe she moves, too, because he has dropped the satchel and they're embracing. She marvels at how solid and warm he feels in her arms, the fabric of his suit coat slightly scratchy against the cheek that she has laid on his shoulder in sheer relief. He smells of jet fuel, hotel soap, and someone else's cigarette smoke, but underneath those, a hint of his own enticing scent lingers. She sighs, inaudibly she hopes, and realizes that while he's holding her snugly against him with one arm encircling her waist, his other hand has ventured up to shelter the back of her head, his fingertips moving tentatively in her hair. They are rocking together gently. She tightens her embrace and closes her eyes, savoring this reunion. She has missed him—ah, so much.

Without warning, he startles and they both pull back simultaneously. His hands grip her upper arms and his voice buzzes with worry. "Amanda, are you all right?" His eyes search her face for signs of trouble. She nods and reaches up without thinking to grasp the lapels of his coat. "And the boys? Your mother? Are they all okay?"

When she answers, "Yes, Lee, they're fine," he lets out a held breath that puffs her hair. He seems deflated.

"When I saw you here, I was worried that…I just wasn't expecting you." He pauses, then continues slowly. "I thought it would be one of Beaman's kids who picked me up today. Or I'd just take a cab if they were busy." She knows that there is more behind his reaction and waits for him to explain. His voice drops and his eyes shift nervously away from hers. "Hunh. It didn't feel right, leaving you and your family on your own so soon after that Estoccia case." He licks his lips and shrugs. "I, uh, asked Francine and Leatherneck to drive past the school and the house a couple of times, just to make sure. I figured if you needed me—if something were wrong—the fastest way to find me would be to come here to the airport. That's all." He releases her arms, and Amanda immediately misses the contact. He has momentarily run out of words, and she is uncharacteristically speechless. Lee's fierce protectiveness has always counterbalanced the danger involved in working at the Agency. The recent threat they faced came from Joe's work instead of theirs, yet Lee is the one who was concerned, who enlisted help with her family's security because he wasn't there to watch over them himself. She regretfully lets go of his suit coat, allowing the material to slide under her palms for a moment before picking up his satchel and handing it back to him.

"How many favors did you call in for that?" she finally asks him, keeping her voice light.

His breathy chuckle is self-conscious. "A few," he admits wryly. "Come on. I've had enough of traveling."

They head for the slowly revolving baggage carousel, walking on either side of a pillar to get there. As soon as they are past it, Amanda's right hand and Lee's left naturally drift outward and find each other, linking their littlest fingers. Then they separate again and move toward the crowd at the carousel. Amanda notices a plump, middle-aged woman in a brown velour pantsuit smiling warmly, a shy teen-ager ducking his head down, and a young girl gazing with open-mouthed delight as they approach. A wispy question floats through her mind. 'What do these people see when they look at us? What do these strangers see?'

Amanda drives carefully away from the airport, adjusting the shoulder harness of her seatbelt, wishing for the thousandth time that Lee would wear his. He's wearing a different kind of shoulder harness, she knows; maybe that makes him feel safe. He is quiet, sitting next to her in his seat, slim hands on his knees, satchel at his feet. Amanda stays silent, too, and concentrates on her driving.

"It's chilly here," Lee finally comments.

Amanda unobtrusively flips the heat on low. "Yes, it's been cool all the while you were gone. The flower buds have been holding tight."

Lee nods. "It was cold where I was, too." The stillness spreads between them like a shallow pool, but Amanda does not find it uncomfortable. She is soaking in the sensation of herself and Lee being in the same city, in the same car. In the same moment. She grips the steering wheel more tightly in her awareness of it and feels joy pinwheeling briefly through her.

"Lee, you must be hungry. How about lunch at my place? I know there won't be a scrap of edible food in that apartment of yours."

He swings his gaze from the damp road and overcast sky to her, considering.

"Mr. Melrose said that you don't need to meet with him until Monday," she hurries on. "Unless you want to. And Mother is shopping with Aunt Edna today. The boys are at school, of course." She hopes it doesn't sound like she's offering him only time that's unclaimed by others, yet maybe there's some truth to that. Her impulse is to add, 'Oh, come on!' but she restrains herself with difficulty. 'Let him decide,' she thinks. The idea of parting from him so soon leaves her feeling squeezed.

"That would be nice," he offers. "Thanks." His smile is so quick and small that she's not sure she really saw it at all.

As soon as they come through the door into the family room, Lee begins sniffing appreciatively. "Bacon. That smells good."

He's right that even though the pan she used this morning has long since been washed and put away, her home still holds a whiff of bacon scent. "That smell does hang around when the house is closed up," she admits. "I can open a window for a little while…"

"No, no, I like it. It smells good, believe me." Lee looks more at ease than he has since he first appeared at the airport; his eyes are even crinkling a little. She shrugs out of her raincoat and drapes it over her arm. "Can I take your suit coat, Lee?" she asks, already reaching out to receive it from him. Despite the rumpled condition of his clothing, he looks so formal in a charcoal suit and blue tie. She's come to appreciate his appearance better in his plaid shirts and jeans. And a leather jacket. She would love to slip that tie off of him and undo the top button of his dress shirt, at least. Hmmm. She can feel her cheeks warm at the direction her thoughts are taking.

To her surprise, he rocks back from her slightly, hands in trouser pockets, fidgeting with coins and keys. Has he read her thoughts somehow? "No, thanks; I'll keep it for now," he says hurriedly. "It was chilly on the plane. I'll just go wash up." He vanishes from the family room, taking his satchel with him. Bemused, Amanda hangs up her raincoat, opens the fridge, pours two glasses of milk, and arranges some cookies on a plate. 'What's he got in that satchel, anyway?' she wonders. 'Missile plans?' The answer could well be 'yes,' she realizes. She snorts lightly with laughter at the turn she took in life when she accepted Lee's plea and his package on that station platform. She feels that her emotions today are tilting and spinning like a gyroscope. That's life with Lee. But deep down, she likes it. She likes the excitement, the sense of urgency, the belief that what she's doing with him, both personally and professionally, is important. She is more vibrant with him than with any man she has ever known, sensing unrecognized tints of her character brightening in the heat of their partnership.

When he enters the kitchen after only a few moments' absence, she sets one of the glasses and the plate of cookies in front of him on the center island. "Here's something to tide you over until lunch is ready. What would you like, by the way? I could make an omelet or hamburgers…" She notices that he really has washed up; the hair by his temples is damp, and his face is slightly flushed from the warm water. He puts the satchel down on the couch with a last, watchful glance at it and steps back to the kitchen, where he lounges against the island and takes a cookie.

"Whatever's easiest. Mmm, chocolate chip." His first bite is half of the cookie. "You know, I think that homemade cookies are America's best export. Yours, especially, Amanda. And I don't even have to wait until after lunch." He smiles charmingly, as only Lee can smile, and takes a sip of milk. She gets a sudden image of him as child, hazel eyes flashing, freshly-scrubbed and hungry after some adventure that he won't tell his uncle about. She thinks, a little sadly, 'Did he give up on breakfast because no one bothered to make him anything when he was a boy? Not even a bowl of cereal or some toast spread with peanut butter?' She finds herself wanting intensely to make a really good meal for him today—something memorable. He has so many empty places; she wishes she could pour her love and faith into them to fill them, at least partway. Maybe that's what she's been trying to do for over the last two years, five months, and thirteen days, she muses…

The atmosphere in the kitchen plummets unexpectedly. He is staring past her at something in the kitchen, his expression first stunned, then gutted, then grim. She turns to see what in the world has prompted this reaction. The bouquet of tulips is now gathered in a white vase that sits on the kitchen counter, the head of each scarlet flower dipping slightly downward with its own weight. He lowers his eyes, too, and clears his throat roughly. "Joe's still in town, I take it." It breaks her heart to hear resignation rather than jealousy or anger in his voice. Who would ever think that she would welcome jealousy in Lee Stetson rather than this flat acceptance?

She answers instinctively. "Oh, yes, for now, at least. Poor Joe."

He asks carefully, risking a quick look at her face. "What do you mean?"

"Well, he doesn't know what he's missed. What he'll never be able to retrieve. Even now, he doesn't really know." She considers adding, 'Lee, I'm not interested in going back to Joe. I'm interested in going forward with you.' But she knows that she doesn't have the courage in this moment to actually say it. And that the man before her is probably not yet ready to hear it.

Lee is quiet, chewing over her spoken comment, uncertainty evident in his face. The silence stretches between them. Amanda gives herself a mental shake and takes charge. "Lee, why don't you have a seat on the couch and rest while I make lunch. You must be tired." She makes little shooing motions toward the family room. "Go on. I'll call you when lunch is ready."

Lee demurs, offering to help with the meal, but she can tell he's grateful for the suggestion. His hands, usually so restless, are hanging limp by his sides, and his movements lack their usual purposeful quality. He takes his snack to the coffee table, sets down the half-filled glass and plate, removes his suit coat at last, places his pistol and shoulder holster in the satchel, re-fastens the clasps, and sinks into the couch with a long exhalation, the bag next to him. "What's going on at the Agency?" he asks, his voice sounding drowsy.

Seizing this neutral topic, Amanda fills him in while she explores the contents of the refrigerator. She finds that she can tell a humorous story about Francine besting Fred Fielder at the same time that she ponders what to make. Lee chuckles at appropriate parts of the story and asks for a few details, which Amanda supplies. Then he is still. Amanda sets the lettuce that she has been washing on the counter and pads over to him. He has fallen asleep, propped in the corner of the couch, his head sunk into his shoulders. Without his guard up, he looks exhausted rather than merely tired. Pale shadows like bruises crescent the lower half of his eyes, and his lips are slightly chapped. She sees the glint of blond whiskers across his jaw and tufts of hair standing up from rummaging hands. Her desire to smooth his hair and kiss the creases from his forehead is strong, but she knows that would wake him, and how would she explain? 'Didn't you sleep while you were away, sweetheart?' she asks him silently, then runs a tender finger from the top of his tie to the center of his chest, which is rising and falling gently now. She covers him carefully with a quilted throw and lets him sleep.

When she has finished preparing lunch, Amanda silently approaches the couch, kneeling near Lee. She doesn't want to startle him from his trusting sleep. "Lee." She lays a light hand on his shoulder, apprehension lapping at her composure. He opens his eyes in response to her voice and touch and immediately smiles at the sight of her face close to his. She returns his smile, reveling in the humming connection that she feels with him. He looks down and plucks at the throw as if he has never known that such a thing existed. "I'm sorry to wake you, but lunch is ready, and I thought that you need food as much as rest. Plus, if you sleep too long, you'll be up half the night. Jet lag is hard enough without that." He nods in agreement, leans forward, and scrubs his face roughly. Amanda immediately stands up and puts both hands out for his, wanting to keep him from rubbing his tired eyes. He genially allows her to pull him up, retrieves his satchel from under the quilt, and follows her to the kitchen, taking a seat at the small table in the breakfast nook.

Amanda pours him a cup of fragrant coffee and sets a tiny pitcher of milk next to it. "I hope you like this, Lee." Her voice is raspier even than usual, and the plate wavers a little in the air before she sets it in front of him.

"Thanks, Amanda; you're…" He pauses as the contents of the plate catch his attention: a smooth hill of cottage cheese, a handful of golden potato chips, a sliced pear, and a sandwich. A sandwich. Cautiously, he lifts the top slice of bread, and asks quietly, "A BLT?"

"Yes, toasted wheat, crisp bacon, with just a touch of mayo." She puts a second plate of food at her place and slides into the chair next to his, snapping out her yellow cloth napkin with feigned confidence. 'How is he going to react to this?' she wonders. He can be so skittish, so shy, for all of his smooth lines and black books. What she is suggesting is something he has been purposefully avoiding for over twelve years now. His emotional walls have been dark and strong. Despite the sparky closeness that has developed between them in the last few months, she thinks despairingly that he just might flee behind those walls again, leaving her alone. Even if he chooses to stay in the sunlight, they have a long journey yet to make together.

He clears his throat and reaches out to squeeze her hand on the table, skimming his slender thumb over the backs of her fingers. "I'm sure that it will be perfect." His voice is low and a bit rocky. He's not looking at her, though; instead, he releases her hand, opens the satchel, and rustles around in it. She finds that she's holding her breath. "Here. I got this for you while I was gone. I couldn't send it, though." He passes a small paper rectangle to her, and she takes it gently from him. It is the size of a postcard but much thicker, made of stiff, multilayered paper. The front shows an antique painted scene of Salzburg: the castle Hohensalzburg on the cliff in the background, the River Salzach in the middle, a pedestrian bridge in the foreground. Immediately, she recalls the warmth of Lee's palm at the small of her back, the sound of rushing river water, the light on old stone. "Turn it over," he suggests softly.

There is something written on the back. Amanda reads the words in Lee's angular, slanting handwriting:

Dear Amanda,

I wish you were here.

Lee

"I thought you need to know," he says simply, and he lets his eyes—honest, eager, hopeful—meet hers at last.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: I call those short passages that tell a part of the story from another character's viewpoint Izzies. Both this Izzy and the next one show Lee's perspective.

Lee exits the Customs area wearily, feeling the leather handle of the satchel smooth against his palm. He wonders idly how many times he has returned to Dulles from far-flung countries and who, if anyone, will be there to pick him up. Some fresh-faced kid of Beaman's, eager to ask questions but afraid to open his mouth for fear of saying something wrong? Or maybe no one among the hundreds of people in the airport will approach him, and he'll find a cab and ride in silence back into Georgetown, his satchel at his feet. He knows that its contents are important, but he is too dispirited to truly care. The floor seems to be rising up to bang against the soles of his shoes as he walks. The crowds of people before him waver like some kind of murmuring, multi-colored banner; he scans it automatically for anything suspicious. Suddenly, his eyes snap onto a slim figure in pink and ivory and grey standing at the edge of the crowd, her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze high and searching. Amanda. He experiences a surge of emotion so strong that it feels like a cleansing current washing through him, yet he can't identify what that emotion is. No matter. He acts on it, bridging the distance between them in a few long strides. The satchel is at his feet and Amanda is in his arms.

Ah. He has embraced her like this only twice before, yet the sensation of her slender body held against his feels wonderfully familiar—familiar and exhilarating at the same time. Have the intense dreams that crowd his sleep nightly created this sense of déjà vu? She has laid her cheek trustingly against his shoulder, and he wonders momentarily if she can hear his heart thudding from that distance. He hopes that he's not holding her too tightly, but to be honest, the embrace can't be too close for him. He senses rather than hears a small sound, like a sigh. One of his hands has found its way to the curve of her head, his fingertips slowly exploring her fragrant hair. He longs to take her face in both of his hands and kiss her with all the intensity of what he's feeling, but he knows that he mustn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever. What if she has chosen Joe? Coolness flows from his arms back into his body at the thought. What if something has happened to her family in his absence? Those thugs they arrested, were they the only ones responsible for framing Joe? If anything has happened to the boys or Dotty, he'll…

He pulls back from her in alarm, missing her warmth immediately. "Amanda, are you all right?"


	3. Chapter 3

Lee enters the bathroom without switching on the light, drops the blasted satchel on the tile floor, and leans heavily on the sink, the porcelain cool against his clenching fingers. How could Amanda know the effect it would have on him to reach for his jacket like that, as if she would take hold of it by the lapels and slip it off his shoulders without his help? He allows himself to imagine her loosening his tie—the silky sound of the material sliding through the knot and the expression in her lovely, mysterious eyes as she raises her gaze to lock onto his.

He inhales shakily and turns on the taps, then cups his hands under the water and tosses it upwards. Again and again he laves his face, wanting to rid himself of the grime and sweat of travel and fear. Blindly, he scoops the curved soap from its scallop-shaped dish and revolves it in his hands. Amanda's scent rises gently from the foam. Well, part of Amanda's scent; the rest is subtle, flowery perfume and something else…something crispy and fresh, like toast. He rubs his face with the fragrant lather, thinking that he's losing it, he's losing it…What is he losing? His chance at something more than friendship with Amanda? More, even, than partnership?

He hollows his fingers under the faucet again and splashes, feeling the warm water run into the hair by his temples. What he is losing, he thinks slowly, is his habit of defensiveness. He has no desire left to keep Amanda at arm's length. A desire "against" has somehow slowly transformed into a desire "for." How long did he shove this realization roughly away? Six months, a year, two years? His expression in the mirror looks scared, even to him. Scared and startled. And if she chooses Joe, or backs away from him, her regret failing to soften the rejection—God, how could he stand it?

He reaches for the white guest towel on the rack and buries his face in it, rubbing hard, the loops catching on his unshaven cheeks. He pauses. There's something stitched into the towel, something slightly scratchy along the hem. He draws back to examine it. Roses. Just a line of dancing roses. How like Amanda to choose such a thing. He smiles sadly, carefully replaces the towel on the rack, and rolls his shoulders in his suit jacket. He has promised himself to take a stand. Now he must find out if that stand has come too late.


End file.
